


some moments last forever (but some flare out with love, love, love)

by marilynhanson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, First War, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marilynhanson/pseuds/marilynhanson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of June 16, 1978, containing uncomfortable silences, a final train ride, and four half-grown boys not quite ready to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some moments last forever (but some flare out with love, love, love)

**Author's Note:**

> "some things you'll do for money and some you'll do for fun / but the things you do for love are gonna come back to you one by one." - 'love love love,' the mountain goats.

June 16, 1978

The Hogwarts Express rumbles its way, as it always has, through thick green countryside on its return to King’s Cross station in London. The customary end-of-year happenings commence: sticky first-years have gotten their grubby fingerprints upon the glass of the compartment doors; older, wiser students lounge comfortably on cushioned seats as they play lazy games of Gobstones; darker, quieter compartments house pairings of significant others keen on one last rousing snog before going two months without licking the face of their beloved. The singular anomaly of the final return journey of the year is this: Compartment J is silent.

Compartment J has not known a peaceful journey to or from Hogwarts Castle since June 1971. The autumn journey of the same year marked the beginning of seven years’ worth of rough treatment, uninhibited noisemaking, and general abuse for the compartment. For the hours and miles it took for the train to pull in at Hogsmeade station, the compartment housed four eleven-year-old boys, and it has housed them every trip since. Its seats’ cushions bear stains from experimental charms gone wrong, splotched on one of its walls is an unpleasant greenish stain that refuses to fade, and four sets of clumsy initials dig into the wood of its windowsill. The carvers of these letters began their final trip with their usual rambunctious vigor, but there was a tightness to it, a pointed not-acknowledgment of the finality. Now, with one hour left before the train pulls into the station, they sit – for the first time in seven years – quietly.

James Potter supposes that he really shouldn’t be in Compartment J at all; in the Prefect’s compartment near the front of the train, the absence of the Head Boy has surely been noticed. But he thinks that he’s been very well-behaved and responsible and all that this year, and if the final rule he breaks is broken in the name of unity among friends, he does not mind shirking the last Headly duties of his career.

Besides, he isn’t feeling well. His stomach is too heavy, like it’s having chunks of lead dropped into it, and he is uncomfortably aware of the awkwardness of his limbs. He recalls the first journey he took on the train, and the annoyance he felt at being unable to reach his feet to the floor. Now his arms and legs feel too long, clumsy. By Remus’s count, James has shifted positions seventeen times in the last hour alone. He does not want to be still.

Remus, to his credit, considered joining the Prefect’s compartment, but justified his absence by telling himself that now is a bit late for him to start being good at his position. This time, though, he doesn’t feel guilty. He feels like parts of himself are growing smaller, and he feels like Peter looked throughout all of their fourth year Arithmancy class, and he feels like his vocal chords have been snipped, leaving him mute. He stares at the headlines of the Daily Prophet, trying to read but he finds that, for once, he can’t focus on ink and paper. Instead, he is acutely aware of the chugging of the train upon its tracks, and of Sirius’s skin against his own.

Sirius nestled himself next to Remus when they boarded the train. The warmth of Remus against him is, thus far, the only thing that Sirius has enjoyed about the train ride. The warmth, and the steady breathing, and the smell of a piney sort of soap. Sirius despises silence, and he considers ways to shatter it, but the words stick in his mouth.

Peter sits opposite him, beside James. He stares resolutely out of the window, but the reflection of his face in the pane of glass betrays the watering of his eyes. To his credit, Peter is not a frequent crier. He did not cry when they were twelve and he broke his wrist wrestling with Sirius, or when his first attempt at the Animagus transformation left him with a rat’s teeth and tail. Still, he thinks that if he looks at James for too long, he will come undone, and that would not do. He grinds his teeth, blinks hard, but does not cry.

James shifts again, and through Peter’s reflection, the sun sinks down toward increasingly tidy fields. His eyes meet Sirius’s.

As ever, understanding sparks between them, immediate and mutual and easy as breathing.

Sirius’s jaw tightens. _I don’t want to get there._

James swallows. _Me either._

They connect this way, and have since age eleven. Sirius believes that there will never be another person with whom love is so impossibly simple.

Loving Remus makes everything more complicated; it amplifies all the beautiful parts of Remus and all the ugly parts of himself and connects him uncomfortably to the dog buried within: eagerness, clumsiness, and overpowering devotion that remains equal parts terrifying and wonderful. Peter, he loves in the way that one loves a slightly clumsy younger brother, all protection and ruffling hair and punches on the shoulder. As with all siblings, he sometimes veers into the realm of too-harsh, nearly cruel admonishment, but the love is there all the same.

James Potter transcends everything he thinks he knows about love, and he defines their connection not in words but by the deep contentment that hums in his chest. James’s solidness anchors him. James can read his mind and finish his sentences and lay out every beautiful and horrible part of Sirius Black. Sirius hates that the phrase “soul mate” carries with it such stupid romantic connotations because it is as close to an explanation for what he and James are that he can find.

Even without the words, James knows. James knows every part of him, and Sirius knows every part of James, and this is the only thing that remains easy.  

“Sirius,” rasps Remus, voice hoarse from the last moon and the quiet, “you are going to break my arm.” Indeed, Sirius has pinned Remus’s arm at an angle that arms are not meant to go. It has probably been this way for a while. He sits up straight. “Thanks.”

Again, the Quiet. On the windowsill, Remus’s fingertips trace the clumsy curve of an S. Sirius’s fingers interlace with his own.

Sirius swallows hard. Peter’s teeth-grinding continues. James shifts again – eighteen times. If Compartment J possesses any consciousness – and considering the train’s considerable magical prowess, it might – it is probably very, very concerned.

Suddenly, its door flies open with a bang, and in tumbles a red-haired, breathless Lily Evans, laughter spilling from her lips and shining in her eyes. She is sudden loudness, motion disrupting their unbearable stillness. James’s face breaks into a smile that seems too big for his face.

“What the hell are you lot doing? There haven’t been any complaints about Dungbombs or escaped rats or anything all journey – Budge over, James – and the other Prefects are starting to think you’re planning something more creative than usual.” She slips into the seat, allows James’s arm around her shoulders, and rests her head against him. “I can’t decide if I want them to be right or not.”

Peter’s teeth grind harder. This is not a moment for her. It is an unpleasant moment, but it is _theirs_ , and Lily intrudes. He glances at Sirius and Remus, but both grin at her, because they are Sirius-and-Remus. Peter’s stomach lurches unpleasantly, but he tries to mimic their smiles.

“Breaking protocol,” says Remus wryly. “Sorry I skipped out on patrols.”

“I’m not,” says James. “The fifth years are unbearable on the way back, all they can talk about is OWLS this and career advice that. Poor sods. Poor, irritating sods.” Something in him has loosened; the tightness slips from his muscles and he lounges, more Jameslike. His feet are propped opposite him, on Remus’s thigh.

“Some Head Boy,” says Lily, amused. “I can’t talk, I didn’t stick around either – I’ve been with Mary and Alice. Just popped into the Prefect’s compartment on the way down here; none of the rest of the seventh years are there, either. No one ever spends their last trip following the rules.”  

And there it is again: the reality of the end. Lily is so impossibly _easy_ about it, and none of the boys understand. James is thankful for the weight of her head against his chest, and her hair tickling his neck, and the fact that she does not seem as though she will cry, and God damn it all the second he thinks this, something deep in his throat clenches. He swallows, and wonders how she can be so light about the whole thing.

Peter grimaces. He thinks it’s a grin, and considering the situation it must be said that he puts forth an admirable effort, but the end result is a grimace all the same. He hates himself for the hot jealousy writhing low in his stomach. He loves Lily, he really does – she is clever and kindhearted and she helped him with his Potions homework without once calling him a dunce, unlike Sirius. But these are their final moments together, and he wants them to end as they began: four boys perched on the edge of their seats, approaching the unknown.

But they can’t be, and he knows that. Sirius and Remus still hold hands, and James’s strong arms wrap around Lily, and he sits as though separated by miles of distance instead of the six inches of tattered cloth seat between James’s thigh and his own. He desperately longs to anchor himself to James, as he has since they were children, but James has his own direction. And so, Peter grinds his teeth and hates himself and tries to ignore what must come next.

“Five minutes to King’s Cross Station,” the conductor’s magically-enhanced voice announces.

In a week, the Order of the Phoenix will meet at an undisclosed location. All of the occupants of the compartment will approach the steps of a disheveled house with jaws set like steel and eyes edged with desperation. They will be joined by many of their peers, and they will oppose many more. The career advice sessions of fifth year were forgotten months back; when they exit the train, they step out as soldiers.

The train slows, then stills. Around them, their classmates of seven years mill about, disembark. Clumsily, stiff-limbed from lack of movement, they clamber to their feet, grasp their trunks, and make their grave-faced way through the train.

“I’m going to run and say bye to Alice again – meet me at the exit of the station, yeah James?” Lily’s smile is bright, her voice light. She doesn’t waver, and James doesn’t understand. He nods jerkily, moves aside, and she lightly pecks his cheek. She hugs each of the boys in turn, and Remus thinks that her embrace is much more solid than she looks. “Remember, late dinner tonight at our flat. Ten.”

She slips off the train, trunk in tow.

The four boys are the last ones onboard, and if they do not move soon the conductor will become unpleasant, as he always must on the June trip. Every year, sentimental seventh-years linger on the scarlet steam engine, because stepping off means never stepping on again. The conductor always fails to recognize the significance of this: He nears fifty, grey-haired and pot-bellied, and at home his husband and their beagle await him. When he lies down tonight he’ll think of it a bit more carefully, recall the final time he stepped off the Express. He will half-remember slipping from one world into another and smile the fond, sickening way adults so often do, content with the hazy shadow-memories twining through his mind like tendrils of smoke.

Millions of people have done this, and yet only four in the world understand with the ferocity born of being young, together. They steel themselves, pointedly avoid looking at one another. Six steps later, the sunlight blinds them. They stumble into the throng of their former peers.

James never realized how many people he knew, but now each busy, happy body brushing by him on the way to a friend has a face and a name and a story that as familiar to him as his own. Susan Golding, who Remus so briefly courted in their third year; Malakai Oswin, top of the fourth year in Charms; tiny Micah Anderson, a first year who regarded James with nothing less than hero worship. He does not know how he knows them, but he feels irrationally grateful to have had the opportunity. Next to him, the toe of Peter’s trainer rubs the station’s tile floor, and Remus’s eyes fix on the large clock facing away from them.

Behind them, the train chugs away.

James tears himself from Micah, forces himself to meet Sirius’s eyes, and his chest has never ached so much. He inhales, shakily, opens his mouth to suggest they get a move on. He does not understand why Sirius smiles until it is too late.

“Are you – fuck it, James, _who’s a girl’s blouse now?!”_

“I’m – I’m not, I’m not Sirius you’re a berk shut up –“

“You _stupid fucker,”_ and they are tangled, Sirius’s warmth enveloping him and his chin poking him very uncomfortably and their chests synchronized in the sharp staccato of their crying.

“I’m _not crying,”_ James half-sobs, half-laughs into Sirius’s neck. “I am _allergic_ to you _fucking losers.”_ Sirius releases him, hands on his shoulders, and a red-faced, snotty, beaming Sirius Black is the greatest thing James has ever seen. They do not stop crying and they do not stop laughing, and because they continue, Peter falls along in. Sirius tackles him, they spin around, and Peter doesn’t know whether he’s being hugged or wrestled; he decides that as long as he is still able to ride in the wake of Sirius’s tidal wave, he does not care. James removes his glasses, wipes them, and gathers himself.

“Get off him, Padfoot, people think we’re mental,” he croaks. Sirius complies, and his hair is everywhere and Peter’s lip continues quivering but they are still enough.

 _“I_ think you’re mental,” says Remus. Since age eleven, Remus has been an unnaturally still presence, all reverberating silences that say more than hours of James’s chatter. He never cries, and he has had more reason than any of them, but his voice is shaking and he teeters on the edge. “You’re all… you’re all absolutely mental.”

Sirius’s infuriating, impossible smile approaches, and suddenly Remus’s hair is tugged and Sirius’s body presses against his and their mouths crash together. It is terrible, and splendid, and when they pull away Remus swallows hard around the lump in his throat and feels his tears smeared with Sirius’s on his face. He laughs, airy, unrestrained.

“Ponces,” says James, thickly but fondly. He slings his arm up awkwardly to catch it around Sirius’s shoulders and slouches a bit to grasp Peter. Sirius wraps his free arm securely around Remus’s waist. Together, they comprise a Hot Damn Mess: four sweaty, shaky, half-grown breathless boys in the middle of the station, trunks knocked over around them haphazardly. They are quiet, save for the breathing.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you all?” incredulous, laughing Lily. “We’re literally eating dinner together in _six hours._ Surely you can last without your boyfriends till then?” She radiates mirth, amusement. A man with more dignity than James would be sheepish.

“We – it’s –“

“Who started it?”

“What?”

“Who started crying first?” She says it with the air of a woman with something on the line.

“James!” pipes Peter, before he can be made a scapegoat. James lacks the heart to scowl.

 _“Fantastic,”_ she says. “Dorcas owes me six Galleons –“

“You _bet?”_

“Not just me, half the seventh years – come on, everyone knew you’d all be disasters; Dorcas had money on Sirius, but I know you too well.”  

“You are an awful, cruel woman, Lily Evans,” says Remus. His smile hasn’t faded, and Sirius’s heartrate has not returned to normal. With the frantic aliveness of a half-composed Remus beside him, he doubts it ever will.

Looking at her, knowing and grinning in a way that makes him feel strangely bare, James thinks several things. He thinks that Lily Evans understands him in surprising and scary ways, that she sees just an edge farther into his thoughts than he can, that he is unbearably grateful to love her out of all the people in the world. He figures he ought to tell her sometime, but James is James, and by his reckoning he has done enough Talking About Feelings to last him several months.

“This is betrayal,” says James, comfortable bravado slipping through the cracks in his voice. "I am leaving you. Remus, pull your claws out of Sirius's arse, I am reclaiming my life partner.”

"Pity," Remus says dryly. "I've grown rather fond of his arse." Peter giggles wetly.

"I like his claws just where they are, thank-you-very-much. Besides, I must think of the children, Potter. You have atrocious posture. You'd teach them to slouch."

“Idiots,” Lily says fondly, and pecks James on the cheek. He thinks he notices a flicker of something pass across Peter's face, but before Lily continues it has passed. “Two minutes. I’m grabbing Dorcas to cash in, then we’ve got to get out of here before the Muggles call someone to haul you lot away. Don’t be so morose. Six hours. Your bond will survive, I am certain.” She steps back, disappears back into the throng of watery people around them.

James thinks that they all breathe together, lighter now. A strange exhilaration chases through his veins. He slowly scans each of their faces, absorbing tiny scars and the curves of grins, feeling the relief in his chest bloom until it presses against his ribcage. It feels, he thinks, a little like being invincible. He knows it isn’t true, knows that off the safety of the Hogwarts Express, they are sugar-spun pieces in a game with no rules. Dimly, he thinks that he should be feeling fragile. But now their angles stand out harsh in the red of the low-lying sun, and they cannot feel scared as they should be or small as they are.

Together, they thrum with magnificence.


End file.
